


Like A Sacrament

by PrincexRaven



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), BDSM, Blood, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bondage, Communion | Eucharist, Confession, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley's existential guilt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Forgiveness, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Japanese Rope Bondage, Kinbaku, Loving Sex, M/M, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Other, Penance - Freeform, Penis In Vagina Sex, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Religious Guilt, Rope Bondage, Shibari, They're so in love it hurts, Very Minor Dubcon, Whipping, cleansing, crowley has a punishment thing, crowley's long hair, just because Aziraphale's not much into the first part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 22:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21205004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexRaven/pseuds/PrincexRaven
Summary: Crowley's only ever vulnerable with Aziraphale, and so he's the only one he can bare his guilt to, so that he may help him work through it.





	Like A Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for a fandom that has consumed my heart, my soul, and my browser. I'm more than a bit terrified of posting it since the fandom is full of incredibly talented writers and I don't know if I've captured the characters well, but since everyone is also so nice, here we go, I guess. Crowley has grown out his hair again after the Apocanope because... it's so pretty i couldn't not.
> 
> Also this came out... incredibly Catholic, my lord.

Aziraphale didn’t exactly like doing this.

He’d never been a Punisher angel; he was a defender, a protector, a guardian, his flaming sword meant to defend and not to attack; he’d never been Michael and their spear, God’s Fighter and Her rage. The weight of the whip in his hand still felt foreign, strange, the action of binding had been so unsettling at first. But he knows how much Crowley needs this, how humiliated he felt, twin splotches of crimson on his high cheekbones when he first asked, he who never asks for anything, and it’s just the first part that he doesn’t like, so he goes along with it. Deft fingers bind knots and trace patterns that have become mindless, vermilion silk rope stark against pale, star-freckled skin, until Crowley’s suspended from the ceiling hooks, copper waves of hair falling into his face, stripped of both clothes and glasses, as bare and vulnerable as he never allows himself to be.

The first impact of the whip cuts whistling through the air and lands on the demon’s milky skin with a “thwack”, blood rushing to the surface and cutting a clear, bright, diagonal red line from his shoulderblade to his lower back, curling around to reach his hip. Crowley inhales sharply, an air not needed, and hisses –not out of pain, Aziraphale knows. He’s telling the angel not to stop, in his own way; if he said it with words this couldn’t masquerade as punishment anymore, and that’s the whole gist of it. So Aziraphale raises his arm, all the strength of Heaven behind it (or perhaps not all, though Crowley will never know) and brings it down again.

At first the lines are clear, precise, Crowley’s back resembling the pelt of some particularly exotic animal with ruler-straight saffron-colored stripes; then Crowley starts to writhe inside the bounds, rub his wrists raw on the rope, his chest, his corseted legs. The whip lays in on the back of his thighs, his bum, still precise, until Crowley yells the clue.

“I refuse!”

And the angel’s arm comes with redoubled strength, and his voice rings clear as a bell when he starts a Paternoster, the Latin words burning Crowley from the inside out much more than any human device could. The lines become messy, intertwined, jagged, crisscrossed. Crowley’s body spasms, arches, jumps inside the suspension harness like he’s flying or Falling, bitten-raw lips agape, blood running down his chin and gagging his forked serpent tongue with its cloying scent, blood again, rushing under his skin, coloring his whole body like a painting, like a trophy.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Crowley starts wailing.

The tears are crystalline and diamondlike on his amber eyes, the droplets of blood on his lips like garnets, like rubies on the marble-cut of his chin and his jaw; his whole body is ivory inset with red gem lines. Gold burned out of him when he Fell; punished like this, Crowley’s external being becomes a jewel, what might have been his soul as close to pure as he can be. The words fall from his pomegranate-seed mouth, apparently unbidden; the angel, _his_ angel, knows they pain him much more than any crack of the whip could.

“I repent. I repent. I repent.” Crowley cries the words like pearls bursting from his mouth, sunset-flame hair hiding the rivers on his tense cheeks, his pride in tatters and his bleeding-heart raw (redder, purer, more valuable than any gem, on his body or not; Aziraphale wishes to shield it from harm, especially when it becomes visible like this, and all he can do is play his part). The voices echo and mix in Crowley’s dim-black room, one proud and mighty, one raspy and broken, their respective repetitive chants almost trying to outdo each other as they rebound off the walls. The leather finally breaks skin, ivory becoming pink flesh, and Crowley arches so violently the tips of his aster-flower hair end up brushing his heels as the taut bow of his body forms almost a circle in suspension. “Yes! Yes, I repent!”, and the whimper is a shout, and if Crowley could cry Hallelujah without burning off his own tongue, he would. (_Confiteor Deo, Omnipotentis_)

He knows his angel’s strength and he knows his own resilience, and he is not afraid; this pain is as holy as he can withstand, blissful and all-consuming. All his fear and his guilt are carried away as the whip is pulled away from his skin in turn, as it engraves forgiveness into the unforgivable. The lickfire of each line is peace. The words making his ears ring numb the voices inside his head. He can’t un-Fall, he can’t beg God Herself for forgiveness, well over six millennia of pleas falling on deaf ears, but there’s a Holy force, a Heavenly Host, washing away his guilt in blood, making him pay for it with his skin of tarnished galaxies, lily-pale like a whitewashed tomb.

(True, Aziraphale turned his back on Heaven, but not in the way he had done, and so he still wields the power to punish him like this, to give him at least a glimpse at the glow of Grace, at its warmth. He’s everything he imagined returning to his Mother might be, and more).

_“I repent, I repent, I repent, I!”_

When Crowley descends into incoherence, Aziraphale knows it’s time to stop. He puts the whip away and approaches the demon, bound and suspended and flayed like prey, and starts undoing the knots, the leg-corset first, so that his lover might touch solid ground while he frees chest and arms, pausing every so often, brushing feather-light fingers over the dragonscale imprints of the rope, tucking copper waves behind the shell of an ear, kissing the tear-tracks on his cheeks with lips that sear. Crowley’s unbound feet hit the floor, his legs colt-like and unsteady, wavering in a way that has nothing to do with his usual saunter; the rest of his body follows into Aziraphale’s arms. He slithers softly down the well-worn velvet of his waistcoat (Aziraphale is without his coat, without his bowtie, shirtsleeves rolled up and the first few buttons of his collar undone; he’s kept the waistcoat on, heedless of possible bloodstains, because in that moment of weakness where all of _this_ poured out of Crowley’s heart and his mouth, he’d also confessed that the texture of the fabric grounds him) until he’s on his knees on the floor, hands clasped behind his back and sinful gaze lowered, a perfect picture of a penitent, a supplicant, if there ever was one.

“Open your mouth” Aziraphale commands, in the same tone used for his prayer, and Crowley obeys quickly, mindlessly, sticking his tongue out, forked and inhuman as his impulses take control, so that Aziraphale’s cock may slide easier into his throat, down down down until an aquiline nose is pressed to the soft belly of the angel. He works the muscles in that throat in such a way that it is visible on his stretched, creamy neck, like he’s constricting it and letting go ever so slightly over and over, snakelike until the end. He keeps his hands behind his back, but he looks up at Aziraphale, the sclera gone from those eyes that beg; Crowley’s the pleaser, but it’s Aziraphale who obliges, roughly grabbing two fistfuls of flamelike hair to keep Crowley right where he is, lips sealed to the base of his cock, only the boa-like movements of his throat and the wrap of his inhumanly long tongue around the length of hardened flesh aiding him, until _all_ that he tastes and breathes and sees is Aziraphale, eyes watering again, fixed on that adored face and the light behind him making white-blond curls resemble his halo even more than usual, tears spilling down his face at the precise moment Aziraphale’s semen spills down his throat like a blessing, like the twin Sacraments of Confession and Communion he’ll never be able to receive (that, in the end, is what _This_ was about); but it doesn’t matter, because he has made himself in his lover a new religion.

Aziraphale guides Crowley gently onto his back, knees high up, maltreated thighs spread, and caresses where he had been pulling, kisses where he had punished. “You’re forgiven”, he says, in the same stern, forbidding tone, kneeling in turn between Crowley’s legs, and his beloved’s entire body seizes up, draws him in. When they do this, Crowley is as he once chose to be in Heaven, the lanky, androgynous body humans may call “male” and the parts misinformed humans may call “female”; what matters of this is that he’s already dripping wet and wanting by the time Aziraphale rubs the purplish head of his dick against the tiny, petal-pink folds of Crowley’s small labia, against his prominent clit like a center-jewel in a crown, glistening poppy-colored and wanton, and he whimpers. “You’re forgiven”, he says, again, this time in his usual voice, and then, as he sheathes himself inside the body that’s clamoring for him, “You’re good” is a reverent whisper. Crowley shudders, cants his hips up, closer, sharp hipbones flush against plush flesh, doesn’t dare bring the angel in with his arms. Aziraphale, however, has gotten to the part he _does_ wholeheartedly like, and intends to take his fill of it; he kisses Crowley’s wrist, the royal blue life-pulse there, his palm, each of his delicate pianist’s fingers, and each kiss goes with a murmur, as he does both arms, awed and in love: “You’re good. You’re so good”. He kisses the offered column of Crowley’s swan neck, kisses the curves of his shoulders and the arrowhead points where said curves are broken by the end of his prominent clavicles, down the line of which he also kisses until he can pour kisses in the hollow where the collarbones strive to meet, down his sternum as Crowley brings his arms up above his head, hair a red sea spread around him as if he still had a halo, offered like a ritual sacrifice, so that Aziraphale may have all of him. Aziraphale pumps his hips in time with each kiss and each whisper, and they sear Crowley like a Heavenly seal, and this, right here (_You’re good you’re good you’re good_) is everything he’s ever wanted since he Fell. An angel to punish him and to love him, to rid him of his guilt and praise him; originally it might have been God, he supposes, but from a fixed point in time, six thousand years ago, it had been not only an angel, but _this_ angel. _His_ love, _his_ forgiveness, _his_ praise, all the things he’d not allowed himself to believe, to even hear out loud.

The pace grows frantic, of thrusts and of kisses and of whispers turned whimpers as Crowley’s moans turn into high, keening sounds as he finally gives in and draws Aziraphale closer with all he has, legs around his soft waist and arms around his neck, fingers gripping at the fabric on his shoulders like they’re clutching a lifeline; meeting him thrust for thrust (_You’re good, you’re good, you’re goodyou’regoodyou’regood_, a litany like a Mass, driving Crowley out of his mind) until Crowley, pressed tight against his savior’s chest, held and cocooned by his arms and his pearly wings, having manifested into existence at some point, comes with a primal scream so loud and high and beautiful it might shatter glass or a mortal vessel; feeling him clench and close and pulse around him like he wants to keep him forever, Aziraphale follows suit, holding Crowley tighter than ever, just the two of them alone in a Heaven made of opalescent feathers as they tremble and cry through the orgasm each brought on the other.

Later, Aziraphale will clean Crowley gently with a damp cloth, tend to those wounds he knows Crowley wants to heal the human way, cradle him in a soft blanket and help him drink cocoa that’s miraculously the perfect temperature, pepper his face with more kisses, chaste this time, until the tears have dried, wipe the blood off bitten lips and kiss those too, hold both demon and blanket in a peaceful sleep. For now, they stay like this, in their love old as time and their newfound Glory.


End file.
